


alone i fly ~ With You I Soar

by TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Dean Winchester/Zacharia (temporary), Fantasy elements, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Shapeshifters - dragons, dragons Dean and Sam, implied - Freeform, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving
Summary: The soil beneath their feet is dark and rich the smell of it heavy in the air; mountains frame what they’ll come to think of as The Valley on their left and right, tall enough the top of them are hidden in the clouds, a sign they’ll be covered in eternal snow. There’s a stream which might swell to the size of a river when meltwater feeds it during the spring thaw, but for now the water flows tranquilly towards the ocean.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I was fortunate enough to have the amazing [Bluefire986](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluefire986/pseuds/Bluefire986) make art for this story; you can see it [here](https://bluefire986.livejournal.com/18769.html) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524431) where you should shower them with love and appreciation.
> 
>  
> 
> Graciously betaed by the ever lovely Senna and the poor gremlin making my dinner, all remaining mistakes are mine
> 
> Did I forget important tags? Let me know.

_”Before the world was born,” the old man reads, his gnarled finger tracing the words on the page slow enough for his captivated audience to read silently along with the well-known words, “before time itself, there was nothing. Endless, eternal; a nothing like you and I are incapable of even imagining.”_

_Reaching for the glass of water sitting on the side table next to his chair, the old man takes a sip before resuming the story._

_“There were no borders to tell where the nothing began or where it ended until suddenly two spots started growing, one a blinding light and the other its perfect counterpart of darkness. These spots were static - unmoving - though they grew larger one tiny atom at a time until they would have been visible to us had we existed.”_

_Pausing once more for yet another drink of the water the old man wondered if maybe he was getting sick, telling stories didn’t usually leave him this parched. At an impatient tug on the sleeve of his shirt he shrugged off the thought for later contemplation._

_“Even as they grew, long, spindly tendrils of light and dark form at the edge of each spot. Slowly they slither across the vast empty, erasing the nothingness with every not-quite touch of their presence. Eons pass like this; two perfectly rounded circles expanding one fraction of an atom whenever a tendril swallows yet another piece of the nothingness._

_They don’t know loneliness and yet they are searching for something; they know not what, just know that what they’re crawling over isn’t it. And then they find it: It’s different from them but similar enough they come closer in greeting, their hunger momentarily forgotten as they explore the phenomenon, uncaring of the dark stains on gold or the bright staining smoke black as they writhe against each other, a sound like a thousand crystal bells ringing delightedly the first noise to ever grace the endless space around them.”_

_There’s a tremor in his hand that hasn’t been there before though he doesn’t notice as he keeps his eyes on the words before him. And even if there’s no relief in what little water he manages to swallow he keeps reading._

_“By the time they realize their error the infection that is the other is already spreading along their coils, rapidly moving towards their origin. Just a beat before plunging into the center of them a roar erupts from their middle, two colossal creatures breaking through the membrane, their enormous wings spanning everything the tendrils have touched as they flap to carry them away from the disease spreading through the veins beneath them._

They’re the first. One’s molten gold, bringer of light and life; the other a dark abyss, birthing cold and death. They’re the same though infinitely different, forever fighting to shroud the universe in their own shadow. But pray one never wins; for where one falls the other will soon follow, and without either light or dark we, too, will perish.”

_The book falls to the floor where he no longer has the strength to hold it, of its own accord his head turns to look at the boy in his lap, fear shooting through him at the sight before him. The boy’s skin is too tight, as if it’s suddenly stretched too thin like something bigger than his grandson is inhabiting the body sitting in his lap; the bones of his skull nearly visible under translucent skin. He dies as he opens his mouth to scream in terror, never seeing the boy’s body jolt as if hit by electricity, not hearing the whispered “Thank you” or feeling gentle fingers close his eyes; nor does he have to watch himself get left behind, not even a footnote in a larger story._


	2. Chapter 2

**I**

* * *

It’s nearing the end of the season; only two eggs remaining in the chamber and the others (those who have already left with their little ones) talking in hushed tones about how sad it is they’ll never deliver on their promise.

It’s the final hour of the last day and while grief squeezes tight around their hearts they’ve yet to give up hope; their diligence rewarded by a sound that may not be loud enough for them to hear just yet, but soon it grows and they renew their efforts soundlessly.

With a last butt of their little heads they break through the shell, welcomed into the world by the warm embrace of their mothers’ fiery breath. They don’t look different from any other youngling: half the size of the egg they’ve just broken from, their skin still pale and colorless, gossamer wings too small for their bodies, the scales covering them from head to toe translucent though the lager’s is lined in sea green - his mother names him Emeraldwing - and the other’s has golden stripes swirling in intricate patterns - _his_ mother names him Starblaze.   
They have other names but here and now these are the ones they’ll be known as.

~

Like all young are wont to do they grow at an impressive speed. It almost seems as if they do so between the blink of the eye and it’s not long before they’ve doubled, tripled, quadrupled their size. Despite being the size of an average horse they’re still tiny compared to their mothers’ forty feet from tail to snout.

All they know is the comfort of the mountain caves and the company of their own, playing and being a nuisance to those who have forgotten what it’s like when all you have to worry about is who can scare their mother into making the most impressive flame. Those who don’t have to worry about feigning surprise but still remembers what it was like to engage in that particular game looks on with amused smiles tinged with the envy of those too old for the carelessness of childhood but not yet old enough to be considered adults.

When the sun rises on the first day of their second year they’re brought outside; not strictly their first time, but the first where they’ll be out in the open for longer than a few minutes. By now their wings have grown enough to fit their bodies, though they’re still hardly more than translucent membranes stretched over a few birdlike bones. It’ll be decades, centuries even, before the wings will be strong enough to lift them off the ground and carry them through the sky.

So, for now the young will use their legs or ride on their mothers’ backs all the while chirping away happily at the change of scenery.

They descend the mountain slowly. At first the lack of haste is due to the snow never melting this high, and then having to stop every moment when someone dives head first into a snow pile only to be followed by the rest, the air filled with their excited voices as they do it over and over again. As they get further down grey soon replaces white, the mountain almost growing out of the snow of which there’s nothing left but streams of melted water running downwards.

It's not long before color bleeds into the world, the landscape changing as trees and grass breaks through the surface, and before their second night they hardly notice the slate grey beneath their feet too preoccupied with these new things they’ve never seen before.

Their final destination is halfway down the mountain. Here there’s a plateau large enough for them to sleep during the nights and play under the sun. For the first few days that’s exactly what they do. Then playtime is occasionally interrupted with lessons on everything between which plants are edible and how to change form.

Emeraldwing is the first to manage his two-legged form though Starblaze follows just minutes after. They spend hours exploring the world like that, their mothers hovering nearby and though nervous they never interrupt their young ones’ games merely stand guard to ensure no harm will come to them. Unlike the others (who soon learn to change, too) they seem content in these smaller forms and rather than change back at night when it’s too cold for their thin skin they curl around each other sharing their body heat. It’s yet another way they’re different from the other younglings, but they don’t seem to crave their company as much as they crave each other’s and as they still learn what they need their mothers leave them be.

The air’s chill and the leaves falling from the trees hold the color of fire when they leave the mountain behind. The beat of their wings sound like thunder causing anybody on the ground to run for cover, their faces turning to the sky in puzzlement when neither lightning nor rain follows the sound. But the dragons don’t spare them as much as a fleeting thought, never realize the curiosity thunder without storm might cause in a human; just because they can assume human form and has walked among them occasionally only a handful has ever settled among them to learn their ways, and none of them have been heard from since.

And if one should express worry they’ll soon be brought to see reason; seeing as they inhabit the scorching deserts and barely slumbering volcanic craters where the very air they’re breathing conspires to kill anything as fragile as a human.

Decades pass and they learn of their mistake in the most painful way. Blood paints the desert sand and floats down the volcanoes, lacking the heat of the lava it’s looking like. In the end there are too few of them left to fight and the dragons retreat even further from the humans’ world, disappearing into legends and myths.

~x~

Emeraldwing and Starblaze have been alone since before their wings grew strong enough to carry them, saved by their preference for the two-legged form; thus the attackers had thought them to be the dragons’ prisoners rather than dragons themselves and they’d been spared.   
Neither their magic nor their fire a match for the humans’ numbers and weapons, they’d been forced to journey with them from the desert they’d called home for longer than any of the humans had been alive. When asked they’d told their names were Dean and Sam, which seemed more human than the ones their mother had given them in a dark mountain cave.   
They’d travelled with the humans for days until they at long last came to a fork in the road where they could pretend their homes were in the opposite direction of where the humans were going.

Their hearts had been heavy with the loss they’d suffered but having each other had brought them strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other. They’d kept to the wilderness as much as possible, preferring to leave their shelter as the sun set and travel with the moon through the night, then searching for a safe place to rest when the first streaks of light could be seen in the sky. Then they’d rest, taking turns guarding the other’s sleep.

On occasion the humans couldn’t be avoided and the more the two dragons had to walk among them the better they became at pretending to be like them. They even began to seek them out a few times each year, selling the skin; teeth; bone; or antlers of animals they’d hunted for food. The humans more than willing to trade with whatever they needed for their continued journey, and when asked they always give the same names they’d used the first time.

They never stay at the humans’ settlements, but sometimes they’ll come across an an abandoned hut - often the remnants of plague or war still visible on the land, but human disease can’t touch them and the fighters are long gone in search of glory or land or loot - and they’d stay there for a while, gathering their strength for the next leg of their travels. They don’t have a destination in sight, just endlessly putting one foot in front of the other in the hope of finding others of their kin or a place untouched by humans or, hopefully, both.

~

There’s still a fine layer of snow on the ground though a few stubborn, yellow flowers have made their way through dirt and snow to regale the world with their color. Lying on a bed of wilted grass and nettles Dean and Sam are lying wrapped around each other for warmth, asleep despite the cold.   
A bird greets the rising sun as it leaves the safety of its nest in search of food, the sound causing them to take the first step towards being awake.

In the realm between sleep and awareness a single note mingles with the bird’s warble, slithers inside their brains wrapping around their spines to carefully but insistently _pull_.

They don’t notice at first.   
All their life, since they broke from the shell to their mothers’ fire, they’ve been close, always touching no matter the shape they’ve taken and most when wearing human skin. It’s no wonder then that it takes them a few hours to realize they stumble into each other’s paths more than usual, that they sit closer while eating the deer they’d managed to catch.   
And once they do they can barely move, afraid to move too far or too fast for the other to follow, despite having never been able to do so.

But once realized the note intensifies, is impossible to ignore to the point where they’ll have to do as it commands. Afraid, uneasy about instincts they’ve only barely heard of, they resist for a while and not until the sun has burnt the cold from the night’s’ air do they shift, taking to the sky with mighty beats of their wings.

It is nearly four sunsets since they last saw signs of humans when they see the swamp and beyond it a giant forest of centuries old trees. By silent agreement they still their wings and slowly float towards the ground to rest for the day, lying side by side on the ground waiting for the sun to set once more.

Impatient they take to the air hours before the sun sets, fatigue written in every line of their huge bodies; they’re still too young for a flight this long, but there’s urgency in the note driving them, a sense of dread pushing them beyond their limits.

The swamp is a hindrance to them and as such will hopefully prove too much for any eventual followers; it’s also far wider than they’d realized but choosing to rest here would bring nothing but their deaths, seeing as their bodies are too large for the small patches of ground and too heavy to not sink should they land on the brackish water.

And so they’re too close to the top of the trees when they reach the forest but still they’re urged forward, forward. Until the note changes, becomes the gentle ringing of wind through the harebells and they fold their wings to spiral into a controlled descent.   
The world blurs like heat haze and they’re back in their preferred form, fast asleep in the soft grass, gently waving as the air waft through it. The quietness of predators and shuffling of their prey combined with the cluck of a nearby stream is the backdrop to a night of pleasant dreams.

When they wake, well rested for what feels like the first time in forever, they take a few minutes to bask in the presence of each other as well as the feeling of safety. Then they stand, their backs to the forest they won’t ever venture inside, and looks over the landscape before their eyes.   
The soil beneath their feet is dark and rich the smell of it heavy in the air; mountains frame what they’ll come to think of as The Valley on their left and right, tall enough the top of them are hidden in the clouds, a sign they’ll be covered in eternal snow. There’s a stream which might swell to the size of a river when meltwater feeds it during the spring thaw, but for now the water flows tranquilly towards the ocean.

They can’t see it from here but they can smell the faint traces of salt and hear the waves break on the shore, and at some point soon they’ll make their way there. For now they walk through the lush grass to the stream to quell their thirst. The water tastes of snow and gravel and they can’t remember when they’ve last tasted something as devine, drinking until their bellies hurt and they can barely move.

It isn’t long before Dean’s fair skin burns under the cold yet relentless sun, forcing them to get up and think of shelter. Knowing humans are both far away and unable to force the obstacles that is the swamp, mountains and forest they wield their magic to get them the tools they need.

It’s not long before the skeleton of a house rises between the forest and the stream. Then comes the roof and walls, able to withstand even the harshest winter storm imaginable. When they aren’t building they’re cultivating a part of the ground, Sam proving to have green thumbs growing vegetables and herbs aplenty.   
Dean experiments with a smoker though the first few tries are torn down before they can try them. In the end he succeeds and they’re able to store fish and meat for the winter.

They survive their first winter. The days are short and the nights long, the wind howling outside leaving frost roses on the tiny windows; they huddle together for warmth a fire burning hot in the fireplace. It’s quiet in a way they’re unaccustomed to and the temptation to shift and fly away is great, but always it’s as if the sound of harebells hold them back.   
Boredom makes them put knives to wood and soon they feed the fire with misshapen bowls and furniture rather than simple logs; before next winter they’ll have filled the space of their little house with woodwork.

When they wake up one early morning the following spring a few sheep and a ram are grazing behind their house. It’s not long before there’s a fence around their garden and they are learning how to make butter and cheese out of sheep’s milk, how to shear them and what to do with their wool.

There’s trial and error, inevitably failing at every turn having to start over repeatedly until they end up with something useful, but in the end, they get to the next sunrise and the next and the next until there have been too many to keep counting and they can rely on experience rather than constant experimentation.

~

Time passes as time is wont to do and in the blink of an eye decades have bled into centuries and nothing has really changed.

The house hasn’t changed much though by now it’s closer to the forest, surrounded by little sprigs of trees that will reclaim the ground if left unattended for much longer. The stream still runs cold in the spring with meltwater from the mountains and freezes at the edges during winter. The mountains are still barely visible though no longer unknown, but the sea has gotten a little closer eating away at the shore inch be slow inch.

It’s one of those mornings where though Summer is still patiently waiting for Spring to hand over her crown, even just a few moments past dawn has the sun chased off the last shadows of the night as well as dried off the dew fallen from the cloudless sky. And though it’s darker and cooler beneath the crowns of the giant trees the air is still filled with the buzzing, snuffling, chirping sounds of insects, animals, birds coming to life in search of either food or mates – or both.

Far enough away for the sound not to send the critters of the forest scattering in fear - or maybe by now they’re used to it, an ordinary forest sound that means all is well - a roar sounds with another promptly rising in answer, over and over repeatedly though the sound is soon lost to the barrage of sea.

Soaring through the sky on the thermal winds they’re just dark lumps of mass but once they reach their apex and spread their wings they look like giant gemstones. The larger a deep brown which seems to drink in the light only to have it reflected back in golden swirls forming intricate patterns on its thick hide.

Unlike the first the smaller is a bright emerald green, ever changing with light and shadow brightening or darkening the color, the sun reflecting on its scales the glint visible far longer away than they realize.

For hours they weave through the sky, their wings bringing them higher than the winds, chasing each other playfully while wrapped securely around each other when they float towards the surface of the sea beneath them only to let go an instant before breaking through, their jaws closing around gallons of water and a few fishes not getting away fast enough.   
Spiraling upwards after, the brown right behind the green whose wings are flapping in an attempt of getting out of reach of sharp teeth; jaws closing around a hind leg immediately letting go only for them to repeat the game with the green chasing the other.

They’re absorbed in their joy and their playful not quite a game - after all they haven’t shifted for years. All they can hear is the roar of the ocean and each other and the silvery tingle of harebells in their minds trying to tell them something. They never notice the dark shadow coming through the forest slithering through the grass; don’t hear the panicked noises from the sheep or the unnatural silence falling over the valley a second later.

Suddenly brown golden wings snap closed and Sam falls like a rock, Dean’s maw opens on a desperate cry but before he can follow there’s an abrupt _tug_ and the world goes dark.

* * *

**II**

* * *

He was a man who’d lived far beyond a human’s expected lifespan, had lost track of his own years - assuming he’d ever cared - and yet he retained the looks of a man just passing half a century. He’s as far from his first half century as he was from his twentieth.

Where had once been a lanky, pale boy with scraped knees and hunched shoulders there was a tall man who’d indulged in some of the finest a man could eat and drink; the top of his head outgrown his hair, the remnants of which had turned white where it grew like a circlet around his head. >br>Nobody who’d known the boy would be able to recognize the man he’d become, though, in all fairness, they had all been dead for decades upon decades by now.

He was born on a sunny autumn morning, the seventh child in a bunch of fourteen and the youngest boy. He grew up in a little village in an even smaller house too small for a family of that size - even if only nine of them made it past their first year - but it was home. His parents worked in the fields with the other villagers and the care of him and the other little children fell to their older siblings until they were old enough to be useful.   
From his fourth year he was taught the duties of a shepherd and before the sheep were lambing they were his responsibility.

Every sunrise and every dusk Zach led the village’s sheep to their grazing spot and back and every day he had to lead them past the bog lying dark and mysterious half a mile from the village. Like all other children Zach knew not to go there, knew all the stories of men drowning where they thought there would be ground under their feet, of creatures just as likely to lead you to your salvation as to your doom.

Zach wasn’t afraid of stories or monsters meant to keep children from playing in the bog, but he _did_ fear the shadowy creature that seemed to follow him with it’s black eyes whenever he walked past with the sheep.   
There was noone he could tell; his siblings would laugh at him and his parents didn’t have time for his wild stories. The only person who would listen was his grandfather but even the old man didn’t believe him and would just nod before reading him the story of everything’s creation or one of the other endless tales Zach at the age of eight already knew by heart.

He’d almost managed to convince himself the creature was nothing more than a shadow cast by the trees and his own imagination and as summer neared its end he didn’t hum as loud when walking past the bog as he had since he’d first seen the shadow.

And then Zach had herded the sheep out while it was still dark; the air chill and when he could see the trees - a darker shade against the slowly brightening sky - what felt like fingers stroke down his right cheek, chilling him to the bone. As the sun rose in the sky dispelling the coldness he forgot, until the same happened when going home, though this time the phantom fingers stroke his left cheek.

Like any other night they went to sleep after dinner, Zach crawling under the covers next to three of his siblings, their breaths soon evening out in sleep but he remained wide awake; he wanted to toss and turn but there wasn’t any room for him to move without disturbing the others, which experience had taught him would only earn him an elbow to the ribs.

The longer he lied there unable to fall asleep the more annoyed he became, but before he could decide what to do bells were ringing in his mind.   
His eyes flew open in alarm - the sound familiar though he was sure he’d never heard it before - his body went rigid with fear and he almost wet himself when a voice sounded in his mind. It was pitch black and slimy, his heart quivered at each word hissed between fangs dripping with venom. Though resistance was futile he still struggled against the hold but eventually he succumbed, seduced by the promises fallen from a honeyed tongue.

That morning the sheep went alone to their pasture, Zach turning towards the fog concealing the ground as he went into the bog. He walked for what felt like hours but when he emerged once again the sun had barely gotten free of the horizon.

Nobody sees the shadow curled around his spine, foggy limbs penetrating his brain, the shade of gigantic, leathery wings protruding from his back. Nor do they see his eyes turn black when a sheep wanders into the bog and drowns; don’t see them change when the ropes holding the plow snaps and the man steering it loses a leg to the sharp blade and soon dies from blood loss.   
The seed of suspicion might’ve been planted when his grandfather dies but by then it’s far too late to save the boy.

Not long after that he decided he’d outgrown the village and he took whatever valuables he could carry and went to see the world leaving nothing but silence behind. During the long, lonely days his passenger taught him all it could, keeping quiet and out of sight when strangers offered the child food, water and a place to rest his head. The boy had the charm that all children possess and when that wasn’t enough the creature helped getting what they needed with brute force; sometimes offering protection when the people offering the boy shelter didn’t do it entirely out of the goodness of their hearts.

But no matter their motivations the boy would leave with a gentle caress to their cheek and a whispered _”thank you”_. 

* * *

When he comes across the merchant ’Zach’ the child is long gone and he goes by Zacharia when he even bothers giving them his name. The man’s life isn’t much but in his cart Zacharia finds a scale as large as both his hands in a color so light blue it’s nearly white. The shadow inside him going still as it reaches for it with its foggy limbs.

_”Power,”_ there’s a whisper in his mind like thousands of snakes writhing in agony. _”So much power.”_

But no matter how long they try they can’t drain the power they can both feel is left in the scale and in the end Zacharia throws it away in anger. It’s not the last time they come across something echoing with the same force: a bone here, a fang there, even the tip of what appears to be a tail at some point, but no matter how many times they stumble across these things or how many scrolls and books they study they are no nearer a way of getting to the energy in the trophies; they do get the name of the creature they come from when they happen across a merchant just minutes after they’ve last fed.

They spend the next however long searching for a living dragon, but everywhere he turns, Zacharia is told there is no such thing as _dragons_ , and then he’s usually laughed at and soon after that well fed once more.

And then one day he stumbles across a witch. She’s old as time itself and not venal for either charm nor force. Her hut is dark, shrouded in smoke from the primitive fireplace, the pot hanging on a trivet emitting a stench that even as foul as it is can’t quite overpower the smells of mold and decay. The witch herself smells even worse, but she’s willing to share her knowledge and for that Zacharia is able to breathe through his mouth for a few hours before begging for a short break. Even the shadow who has spend eternities in a foul smelling bog appreciates the clearer air outside.

She burns incense that makes the hut smell worse than the dunghill it already smelt like, brings a knife to the palm of his hand and spits in it before chanting in a language neither he not his shadow has ever heard before.

”There,” she rasps, “is your dragon.” He’s almost out the door before she speaks again.

”Of course, if you want to _control_ the dragon, it’s going to cost you.” Her smile radiating smugness despite her lack of teeth.

Zacharia reluctantly turn back towards her and then they begin to bargain.

When he leaves days later it’s with the knowledge of how to subdue a dragon and bind it’s magic; a few bottles as well as the recipe for the potion that will make it forget what it truly is. Furthermore she’d taught him a different kind of magic: siphoning force through essence; which he’d paid to the point where he felt raw and each step he took was agony despite the shadow riding his back.

~x~

Even Zacharia - and the shadow creature - can admit the man is rather handsome. He looks young, probably no more than twenty two summers; he’s got broad shoulders and a narrow waist and muscles are corded under his skin. Skin that is tanned, a golden background to the freckles dusted across his downy cheeks and straight nose. Below which is a pair of pink, full lips currently stretched wide and shining with saliva. His hair’s dirty blonde just long enough for the hands on his head to grab hold of it and tug him where he’s wanted. His forehead is smooth, his eyebrows thin and delicate drawing the gaze to his unnaturally large eyes, the emerald green of them accentuated by his light lashes.

With a grunt Zacharia pulls his attention from the young man, slipping from the room before the women of the village they’re currently living in comes back to see how the finery they’ve found for him fits.

They don’t see each other before later that evening when they’re sitting opposite each other waiting for dinner to be served, the village elder’s wife who’d volunteered to play chaperone to Zacharia’s young fiancée sitting next to the green eyed man her husband between her and Zacharia. The woman is prattling on about the wedding preparations while her husband is boring Zacharia to tears with an account of the villagers’ taxes in the last decade. If he’d known there would be this much fuss with temporarily reclaiming the estate and title he’d gotten a few centuries ago and made sure to be “passed down” to him, he wouldn’t have bothered.   
On the other hand they’d needed the blessing of a priest and an official ceremony was the easiest way to obtain it.

With a sigh he tunes back into the monologue spoken at him, not even able to enjoy dinner.

~

Waking up in a strange place surrounded by unknown people was its own kind of unsettling. Being told that one of these strangers was a man you were supposed to marry - a man who made your skin crawl and sweat break out all over your body as it took conscious effort not to run - and it was no longer just unsettling but downright frightening.

It has been six months since he woke in a four poster bed made from dark wood and smelling like dust and mothballs. In six months all he’s been able to remember is his own name, at least when asked by the doctor after waking up he’d said his name was Dean and everybody had nodded as if they already knew that and then proceeded to talk about him as if he wasn’t even there.

He’s learnt that he doesn’t much care for being measured for his new clothes or trying them on, has found out that the sound of too many voices speaking at the same time confuses him and makes it impossible for him to understand what’s being said.   
Dean knows the man he’s to marry when the moon swells next is the richest man in a three days’ journey radius, that his name is Zacharia and that Dean is torn between hating him and being terrified of him.

He knows that while at first glance Zacharia looks like everybody else sometimes it’s as if his eyes go black and when they hold hands (or Dean’s on his knees, though he _doesn’t think about that_ ) cold exude from his skin and there’s something oily and foul slithering under his skin, reaching for Dean making him recoil in fear and disgust.

For the most part Dean has been left to his own devices and the company of Myra Carlyle; who insists Dean must stay indoors to protect his fair skin and work on his needle point. He’s pretty sure he’s never in his life done needle point - he definitely lacks skill as well as muscle memory - and when he’s been inside for too long it feels as if there’s a weight on his chest crushing his lungs until he’s gasping for air; more than once he’s been pulled from the window sill by the guards - often enough his windows are now bolted shut.

Sometimes his back and flanks itch and no matter how long he scratches he can’t alleviate it, nor the inexplicable weight he can feel at those very spots. At times like that he distracts Myra’s ever vigilant eye and goes to hide in the garden, away from the voices and the planning and - most importantly - Zacharia. There, sitting on a bench just one more termite from collapsing, he thinks he can hear the faint sound of wind through harebells though the mystery of the sound disappears when he’s hit by the pain that feels as if there’s a hole in his heart.

Perhaps it’s odd for him to seek solace just to feel pain, but it’s the only thing Dean has felt for six months, the only thing that feels as right as the sound of his name when he whispers it into the darkness of his room at night or the color or his eyes in the mirror, a color he sometimes thinks he sees out of the corner of his eye but every time he turns to look for it it’s gone.

* * *

**III**

* * *

The stranger is all they talk about. As such Dean has heard all about the tall, dark ( _”sexy”_ Lucille Adams had called him in a hushed tone, looking around to make sure nobody but Dean had heard her) man walking into the village a few days earlier, before the man is shown in by the servant who’d opened the door for him.

Myra greets him with poorly concealed curiosity and Dean reaches out his hand as she’s taught him to do. He’s not prepared for the jolt shooting through his arm when his and the stranger’s skin touch, the flash of bright green and golden brown rendering him speechless, the blood rushing in his ears preventing him from hearing the man’s name.   
He practically falls into his chair, his breath coming in tiny, soundless gasps as he tries to slow down his galloping heart. It almost feels less painful than before.

Myra and the man are engaged in conversation when Dean finally comes to. Hazel eyes meets his filled with a worry Dean thinks shouldn’t be bestowed upon strangers; he can’t help but lean closer, trying to convey that he’s all right. Before he gets a chance to open his mouth and speak with the man, Zachariah steps through the door, brushing against Dean as he reaches to shake the stranger’s hand causing Dean to move as far away from them as his chair will allow.

This time though he manages to catch the man’s name - _”Sam,”_ he says, his voice deep and smooth and soothing the itch once more making itself know on Dean’s back.   
There are the expected exchange of pleasantries from Zacharia, an invitation to stay in an unused guest room and attend the wedding taking place in few days. At this Sam’s eyes widen a fraction as if he can’t hide his surprise before he gratefully accepts. With a flourish Zacharia points to Dean, telling their guest he’ll show him to his room and make sure he’ll have everything he needs and to excuse Zacharia as he has business to attend to elsewhere.   
With that he takes his leave, Dean left alone with Myra and the stranger.

Dean has no idea how it happens but Zacharia has barely left before Myra starts yawning, asleep before she can ring the bell and ask a servant to show Sam to his room. He doesn’t have time to think about it before a bright smile is sent his way.

”Maybe you would be so kind as to show me around,” Sam asks and Dean ought to say no especially with Zacharia gone and Myra seemingly fast asleep. In fact the word is right there at the tip of his tongue just as he’s telling himself to reach for the clock and have a servant show Sam to his room or maybe wake the woman. 

”Certainly,” is what he hears and he almost turns his head to see where the answer came from, then realizes it was his own voice as Sam sticks out his elbow. With a final glance to Myra Dean links his arm with the guest’s and then leads him through the house.

It’s a short trip; largest house in the village still isn’t more than ten rooms and Dean doesn’t know anything about it in the first place other than which rooms belong to who. Dutifully he points them out to Sam - Zacharia’s at the end, then Dean’s and closest to the stairs the guest room where Sam is sleeping. Dean takes them past the linen cupboard grabbing clean covers for the bed. He offers to dress it but Sam insists he should help and in companionable silence it doesn’t take them much more than five minutes.

Dean knows he should leave the stranger alone and retire to his own room until dinner, but there’s something about Sam - about his brown hair with faint traces of gold, his clean shaven face that makes him look younger than he feels, his pale lips stretched in a pleasant albeit nervous smile; and then of course his eyes that holds Dean’s own in a way nobody else has done for six months - that has him offering to show Sam the garden. The man accepts even before Dean’s done talking.

They don’t link arms this time though Dean rests his hand on Sam’s elbow, silently praying nobody will see them and if they do that they won’t tell either Myra nor Zacharia.

The walk through the garden takes significantly longer than the one through the house, mostly because the stranger (“Sam,” the harebells chimes in his mind) stops to point at every flower or bush they pass, to name all of them much to Dean’s amazement as he can barely tell a daffodil from a rose.

Soon their feet take them to the tiny pond Dean usually keeps away from. The first time he’d laid eyes on it sadness had welled in his chest, his shoulders weighed down by an enormous yet impossible mass and his ears filled with the sound of the wind breaking on scales covering a pair of flapping wings. Dean was almost certain he’d seen fear in Zacharia’s eyes when he’d told, but it had soon been replaced by his usual aloof expression and he’d then proceeded to make Dean drink the horribly tasting potion that would presumably help him regain his memories.

So far the potion hadn’t done anything but make Dean slightly sick, just as going to the pond did nothing but make him worry he was losing his mind.   
However, the solid presence of the man beside him, his hand on Sam’s elbow seemed to keep most of it at bay. Rather than sad his heart beat faster in excitement, his back straightened and a smile pulled at his lips though he didn’t realize it. In silent agreement they kept walking not stopping until they stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the orange fish weaving in and out between the water lilies.

”It’s beautiful,” Sam said. “Though not as beautiful as the sea.”

”What’s it like,” Dean asked, looking at the other out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s gaze was following the largest carp as it swam towards the bottom of the pond, then circling the stems of a few water lilies before swimming closer to the surface. Time stretched between them and as the silence went on Dean opened his mouth to apologize for possibly offending the man.

”Terrifyingly beautiful. On warm summer days when the surface is glassy it feels as if you can see the ocean floor no matter how far out you are, no matter how deep the water is. Then when storms are brewing the waves are clad with foam, hiding every living thing calling the sea its home.” At long last he tears his gaze from the carp currently nipping at the water lily’s leaf and looks into Dean’s eyes.

”And to stand at the edge of the water, the waves washing over your feet while droplets of water soak through your clothes, the warmth of another’s body keeping the cold at bay.”   
Dean can see it in his mind’s eye; can see himself standing barefoot in the surf, warm water licking at his skin as the sun coaxes his freckles out of hiding. Next to him a man a few inches taller, one large hand on Dean’ hip pulling him closer the other gesturing to their surroundings, telling stories about every little thing they can see.

It’s not until his eyes fy open that he realizes he’s closed them, Sam’s face a hair’s breadth from his and it feels as if the world is standing still; only to be broken by the sound of Myra’s shrill voice calling Dean’s name.   
When she reaches them she narrows her eyes in suspicion. They may stand far enough apart to satisfy propriety but only a blind person could miss the color in Dean’s cheeks or the way the guest’s body is angled towards him. Cursing herself for falling asleep she makes sure to get between them and measure her steps to theirs as they make their way back to the house.

The trip back is made in silence and once through the door Myra grabs Dean’s arm, dragging him towards his room with a hasty remark about seeing Sam for dinner. Standing alone in the hallway he, too makes his way to the room he’s been given.

~

As soon as the door closes behind him Sam groans in frustration.

For six months Sam has been searching for Dean; his lost half - his mate, even if they’ve yet to complete their courting. He’d asked everybody he’d met but nobody had seen or heard of a man matching Dean’s description; at least until he’d met a young woman who smelled faintly of smoke, mold and the oddly sweet scent of something rotting. She had told him of a village three days’ journey away where the local lord was rumored to have found a young man who couldn’t remember anything but his name. Sam had thanked her and as soon as the night fell he changed for, letting the beat of his wings carry him further and faster than his feet could have.

It didn’t take long to find out that a man matching the description did live here and hadn’t done so for more than a few months. Once he was as certain as he could be without having seen the man, Sam made his way towards the largest house in the village.   
He barely noticed the woman greeting him, because sitting there looking all kinds of wrong with his gaze cast down and what appeared to be needle point in his hand was Dean; safe and sound seemingly in perfect health and yet when he finally raised his head to greet him there wasn’t any recognition; Sam could’ve wept if not for the fact he wasn’t alone.

Sam had almost lost it when this Zacharia person told that he and Dean were to be married, but he’d thankfully been able to accept the invitation for food and shelter as well as a spot in the wedding party. Getting the woman to fall asleep to get Dean alone had been fairly easy, but then he’d lost track of time walking around the garden with him. And he’d been so close, too, he was sure of it. The way Dean had kept touching him and staying close just like they alway had, and when Sam was talking about the ocean he was sure there had been the barest hint of recognition somewhere deep in Dean’s emerald eyes; only for the moment to be ruined by the annoying human.

It has been an exhausting time and while he doesn’t plan to Sam is asleep; the darkness quiet except for the faint ringing of harebells.

He’s startled awake by the gong signalling that dinner i done. Reluctantly he gets up, washes his face in the basin, straightens his close and makes his way to the dining hall.   
He’s the last to enter, Dean’s bend head at the end of the table farthest away from the door, Myra at his right and an unknown man on his left, Zacharia seated at the end of the table closest to where Sam’s currently standing, a free chair between him and the other man.

When Sam’s close enough the man gets up and presents himself as the village elder, Alain Carlyle. Sam politely shakes his hand and gives his own name before sitting down. He’s barely let go of the chair before plates of food are placed in front of them without explanation, the sounds of cutlery against the china all that can be heard for a while.

He can feel eyes boring into his skull but when he raises his head nobody’s looking at him - Dean’s head bent as he listens to whatever Myra is saying while Zacharia and Alain are discussing taxes of some sort. Bored Sam keeps eating all the while trying to catch Dean’s eyes. However he doesn’t look up, at least not until Zacharia starts talking to Sam.

It’s the same conversation he’s had countless times before. Where is he from and where he’s going; what news does he bring and so on and so forth. As he talk he can feel another pair of eyes on him, but these he knows the feel of, can point to any of Dean’s freckles without looking and decipher the exact look on his face by the heat in his face. Resisting looking at him is far more difficult than Sam would’ve thought and thankfully the mean soon ends, Myra and Dean retreating to the living room they’d been sitting in when he arrived, the other three staying seated around the dinner table as servants came to clear things, leaving behind cigars and coffee.   
Not caring for either Sam soon retires for the night

~

It’s been long since he last slept in a bed this nice with freshly laundered linen and without having to share with at least three other people. As a result he sleeps better than he has for weeks, though part of the reason may very well be the fact that Dean is only a thin wall away.

Not quite ready to leave the comfort of the bed Sam startles when there’s a knock on the door, but as soon as he calls out for whoever is on the other side to enter he’s simply met with a tart “Breakfast is ready”. He really dislikes that woman, but he still gets up and washes his face and hands in the basin once more and then dresses before going back to the dining room.

Both Carlyles are already at the table but their host and Dean are nowhere to be seen. Sam’s about to ask when he can hear what sounds like running feet on the stairs, and then Dean’s slipping into the same chair he’d been sitting in the night before, his face red and his hair slightly unkempt. Sam watches in puzzlement as Myra hands him a napkin causing Dean to flinch almost imperceptibly before he takes it and wipes at his mouth.

Not caring for anything but the chair on Dean’s right being empty Sam pushes the mystery from his mind and takes the seat before Myra can rectify her mistake. He answers her glare with a smile and shifts a bit to be able to feel Dean’s body heat; he in turn lift his head, green eyes wide in surprise and Sam thinks it feels like the sun shining down on him when Dean smiles at him.

If he’d been in his other form there would be smoke coming from his nostrils at the way Dean’s face falls when heavy foot falls signal the arrival of the host; but at least he doesn’t move and Sam will take that as a win.   
Breakfast is finished in complete silence, then Zacharia and Carlyle leave to do whatever they do.

”We have some last minute adjustments to tend to,” Myra says not looking at either man. “Why don’t you stay here and entertain our guest while I see to them?”

Dean looks at her in complete bewilderment; before he can answer, though, she gets up and with a pointed look leaves them alone. Sam takes the opportunity, placing a hand on his knee.

”You want to go outside?” Dean’s answer is a nod.

~

Dean has no idea why Myra suddenly decided to leave them alone considering the look on her face when Sam had sat down next to him. But there’s something about the man who, despite being a stranger, makes Dean feel calm and safe. He needs it after Zacharia doing the ritual he insists on performing every two days, the feeling of that _otherness_ sharing Zacharia’s skin particularly overwhelming since Sam showed up; it’s almost at the point where Dean’s convinced there is something not entirely human sharing his intented’s body and it’s not just a sign of him going crazy as the priest had suggested when he’d confided in him.

Once more they make their way outside. Summoning every ounce of courage Dean had grabbed Sam’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He doesn’t have small hands but Sam’s a just a bit bigger, encasing his hand and making him sigh happily.   
They don’t speak but unlike during breakfast it’s a companionable silence, as if they’ve known each other for years and can hold entire conversations with just a squeeze of a hand or wiggle of a finger.

When they reach the old oak tree Sam stops them with a hand around Dean’s waist, turning him from the shade and with his other hand gestures to the sky. The whole thing makes his heart clench painfully, his mind reach for something lying at the tip of his fingers and the sound of harebells rising to a deafening crescendo.   
Looking at him from the corner of his eye it seems as if Sam’s eyes are golden and cat like, the skin no longer hidden by the sleeve looks like scale and has the same color as tiger eye. Closing his eyes Dean shakes his head to make the hallucination dissipate, instead focusing on the way his shoulder blades itch and the weight on his back.

Before he can open his eyes to see if he’s stopped hallucinating there’s a hand flat against his cheek, a thumb carefully stroking beneath his eye.

”I had forgotten.” It comes out almost like a sob. “Six months and I had forgotten how you feel.” Sam pulled him closer, wet hitting his neck where he’d buried his face in the crock of Dean’s neck. Still not knowing anything but his name Dean didn’t know how to respond and instead chose to lift his hair to pet Sam’s hair.   
He couldn’t help but laugh when what sounded like a purr came from Sam.

Time ceased to exist and neither of them knew how long they stood there, but eventually Sam’s tears dried up and he realized how tightly he was holding the other, letting up on his grip ever so slightly.

”We used to fly together. Chasing each other through the clouds.” Sam lifted his hand well above Dean’s shoulder seemingly stroking nothing but ait and Dean _could feel it_ , then carried on as if nothing had happened.

”You prefer the ascend. Rising high above the ground and spreading your wings. When the sun’s behind you it looks as if they’re made of bone. But they’re this indescribable, delicate green. Like the first leaves on the beech in spring.” He pauses places both hands on Dean’s hips and turn to face him fully. “I miss you.”

Dean is still processing the sparks igniting his blood, which is why he doesn’t react when Sam leans closer and presses his lips to his. If every point of contact up until know has been sparks then this kiss - chaste as it is, just lips touching each other - is an explosion. Heat courses through him burns through every layer of spell and enchantment Zacharia has call down on him.

Then he opens his mouth, invites Sam to come closer, tongues coming out to play. His head’s quiet except for the blood rushing in his ears and some instinct telling him to get closer, to arch his back and roll his hips. Dean obeys, gasps at the pleasure sizzling down his spine and is only dimly aware of a faint scream, though he loses track of it when Sam starts moving with him, their breaths loud in the quiet air.   
Just as his control slips Dean looks over Sam’s shoulder seeing Zacharia run towards them, his face twisted in rage as he screams at them to stop.

But just as there’s no stopping a stampede Dean can’t stop his own pleasure peaking, leaving him shaking apart in hands no longer bigger than his.   
Suddenly the phantom itches and the inexplicable weight on his back make sense - there are wings attached to his back and while gorgeous they’re _huge_. That’s not the only change; besides the wings he has a tail almost as long as his body, a nasty looking sting at the tip he knows can slice an enemy nearly in half; his hind- and forelegs are equipped with long talons, the limbs as mobile as his arms. Dean roars, half joy at being free and half warning to the human still coming closer.

In front of him Sam steps to the side and turns to make his own transformation. It’s barely more than a thought before the giant tiger eye colored dragon stands next to the emerald green, adding his roar to the one still echoing. It should be enough to stop an attacker, especially one as old as Zacharia not to mention unarmed and alone. Then they see it.

Zacharia is in the middle of his own transformation; leathery wings larger than the dragons’ erupt from his back; a long, skeletal neck breaking from the top of his spine, extending three feet in the air before an enormous head materialized out of thin air. Contrary to the neck and wings there was still flesh attached to the pointy skull; it was in different stages of decay but there nonetheless.

And weaved through every bone and vertebrae of both human and the skeletal parts vaguely reminiscent of a dragon was a shadow so black it was more the absence of light than an actual color. Looking at it was painful and as they attacked they learnt it was pure agony to come in contact with.

Despite Sam and Dean outnumbering Zacharia, he had fed off human life force for centuries, and as such the outcome of the fight wasn’t guaranteed,   
And for a long while Zacharia had the upper hand, being able to strike without hurt and not having to look out for anything but himself. Soon though it changed as centuries worth of working together kicked in and they remembered they had the ability to breathe fire. Where it hit - white glowingly hot - the shadow turned grey and fell to the ground, unmoving. From there it was only a matter of a few minutes before the skeletal-Zacharia construct fel to the ground the shadow creature entirely gone; a beat as if the world held its breath and then the years caught up with him and he turned to dust.

Without looking back Dean and Sam took off, their strong wings quickly carrying them home.

**End**


	3. Epilogue

It was the worst blizzard in recent memory. The humans huddled together in their tiny houses trying to ward of the cold, praying it would end soon. High above the clouds they flew, their playful roars concealed by the storm, their forms hidden from sight by the ice cold sleet pelting the few either brave or stupid enough to venture outside.

They flew for days neither knowing where they were going but both lead by a pull even stronger than the one that had once brought them to the valley they’d lived in ever since - it had been years since they last thought of certain events, longer still since the peacefulness of the night had been disturbed by terrified screams following a nightmare.

Shielded by the clouds they were unable to see the ground below them, the distance making it impossible to hear anything but the occasional roar of the ocean, though mostly their world had narrowed down to blue emptiness and the wind whipping around them, the sound of their wings as they kept moving forward. And then the sound of harebells urging them downwards; their wings at their sides controlling their descend.

They stop at the top of the mountain. Rugged edges of rock wall surrounding an opening just large enough for them to slip through with careful maneuvering. The further down they come the warmer it gets, the air heavy with toxic gas and foul smell. A few feet above the magma is a shelf large enough for them to rest comfortably on.

They leave again weeks later, the extra weight they’re carrying making their hearts soar in ecstatic joy.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are encouraged, pointing out my overuse of the word 'and' is not.  
> Thank you for reading


End file.
